


Step right up to the Gingham Altar

by agamous (apetala)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Great British Bake Off AU, M/M, all my presh babbies having fun and baking genoise sponges and kissing each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-22 23:41:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13177692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apetala/pseuds/agamous
Summary: A Great British Bake Off AU





	1. Chapter 1

The first time they spoke was when James stole Marcelo’s custard.

 

James had always dreamed of being on the show, ever since he watched his first episode in his freshman year of college, catching an older rerun at 1 AM while studying for his chemistry exam. He had put down his books, intending to run down to the common area to microwave some ramen noodles before returning to his studies. Instead, he had found the television set on, and some people frantically whisking meringues in a white tent. He had sat down blearily to eat his ramen noodles, and found himself still there an hour later, watching Sergio and Iker announce who was star baker for bread week. From then on, James found the time to watch the episodes religiously. When he moved out the dorms and into a shared apartment, he got into the habit of baking with the show as well. What started as simple box mix cupcakes and soda bread turned into James spending his spare time researching how to make delicate little goat cheese and prosciutto pastries. His apartment quickly gained the reputation as the “one that always smells good” on the block, and there was no shortage of friends who would come over to his place to watch the newest episode, while munching on his bakes.

 

So when he finally got the letter, stating that his application was accepted, and that he was invited to London to do the first of a series of interviews with casting, he didn’t let himself get too excited. Surely he wasn’t good enough. He’d only been baking for a few years now, though admittedly rather intensely. So James didn’t let himself get his hopes up. Not after he was invited for a second, and third round of interviews. Not even after he got the email, saying he was officially invited to be a contestant on the Great British Bake Off.

 

Surely the judges would take one look at him, and realize he was a fraud. He’d probably be kicked off his very first week. No need to get his hopes so high.

 

But when he first stepped on the green lawn of where the white tent was pitched, James couldn’t deny the excitement electrifying his body, making his heart race. He was actually here. His bakes would actually get to be eaten by all the familiar faces he’d watched on screen.

 

James could barely remember his first day of the competition, the day a whirl of nerves. He made a decent signature coffee and Bailey’s-soaked sandwich cake (which Guti enjoyed greatly), proceeded to come second to last in the technical challenge, and saved himself with an acceptable angel food cake. He remembered making a great deal of introductions—he of course remembered Cris, by far the best looking contestant of the group, and also one of the most handsome men he had ever met, dressed in a rather eyebrow raising fitted turtleneck, and tight little blue jean shorts to match. James had to force himself not to stare. The last thing he needed was the show to paint him as some sort of sad creep with an obvious crush.

 

But James also remembered his work station being behind another contestant. James kept looking up to see the guy, working steadily on his lime and passionfruit Swiss roll, the solid lines of his body, and the dark halo of his hair. Sergio and Iker often dropped by, and James could see how easy bantering came to him, unlike James, who often could only smile and blush and look down as he tried desperately to think of an acceptable reply that wouldn’t cause him to stutter.

 

James took a surreptitious bite of the guy’s Swiss roll after the cameras stopped rolling, and thought to himself. _This guy is making it to the finals._

 

(James was vaguely surprised when Cris came up to him afterwards, with a plate of his own banoffee layer cake for James to try. James personally thought Zidane’s comment that it was far too sweet was spot on, but told Cris that he really liked it. He felt a flutter in his stomach as Cris smiled down at him, and tried to tell himself to stop being weird.)

 

It was the second week there, when they were given the trifle showstopper challenge, that James really even spoke to the contestant in front of him.

 

It had been a difficult day—James’s crème pat had turned to scrambled eggs twice in the pan, and the brandy snaps he had made were sadly limp and bendy. James was dead sure he was leaving this week, and he felt sad about it—he knew he could do better than this.

 

He was so engrossed in the memory of Iker trying to eat his brandy snap, only to have his jaws glued shut for a good five seconds, that he didn’t realize what exactly he had grabbed out of the freezer, until he realized the contestant ahead of him was asking everyone if they had seen his custard anywhere.

 

James came back to himself, to realize the glass bowl he was holding was definitely not his, and that he was pouring a beetroot colored custard over his lady fingers.

 

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” James said, turning to the other guy with a white face. “I think I stole your custard by accident.”

 

The other guy looked at him, and James felt his heart stutter for a moment. “Ah.” The other guy said, hissing in discomfort.

 

“I’m really so sorry.” James went on, almost babbling. “I really didn’t mean to. Oh my God, oh my God, I’ll make you a new custard or something…”

 

“It’s all right, love, it’s nothing to get upset over.” The other guy said, stepping closer. “There, there.”

 

And without letting James say another word, he brought in James for a strong, bone crushing hug. James felt the man pat his hair comfortingly.

 

James let himself hide his face into the other guy’s shoulder for a moment. He heard Sergio walk quickly over to them, and start on a distinct volley of curse words, accompanied by the cameramen groaning. James hadn’t realized the camera had been trained on them at all.

 

“You boys all right there?” Iker asked, putting a hand on both of their shoulders, as Sergio continued an impressive list of expletives, ruining the cameramen’s footage.

 

“Yeah.” James said. He looked up at the other guy. “I’m still really sorry.”

 

“No big deal.” The other guy shrugged. “I’m sure your custard is just as good.”

 

James sighed. “With the day I’m having, it’s probably a curdled lumpy mess.”

 

“Don’t be like that.” The other guy said, smiling at James. “I tasted your sandwich cake last week, and it was really good. I know you got real talent. You’re just having an off day, is all.”

 

James smiled, feeling a tiny bit better. Maybe it was the way the other man was smiling at him.

 

“I’m James, by the way.”

 

“Marcelo.” The other guy laughed. “Weren’t you listening when the producers introduced everyone?”

 

“I was so nervous…” James started.

 

“I can see that.” Marcelo said. “Still, you know you belong here right? You got nothing to be nervous about.”

 

James sighed, but smiled back at Marcelo. “You’re being awfully nice to a custard thief. Thanks.”

 

Marcelo winked back at James, leaving him speechless. “What can I say? Custard thief’s cute.”

 

And with that, Marcelo walked back to his workstation.

 

And after a stunned moment, James walked to his as well.

 

Marcelo ended up using James’s custard in the freezer for his tropical themed trifle.

 

Zidane and Guti ended up praising James’s custard, and panning Marcelo’s beetroot custard. When Marcelo still received Star Baker for the week, he winked again at James. “I’d like to thank the man who made this possible.” He said aloud, bowing to James. “To the custard thief who saved my trifle.”

 

James laughed out loud, as the others gave him a round of applause as well, and for the first time since being in the tent, felt like he _belonged_.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Ugh, who does he think he is?” Cris grumbled under his breath.

 

“Has to rub it into our faces, that’s what he’s doing.” Marcelo looked uncharacteristically grim, hunched over a plate of Fabio’s earl grey and bergamot ice cream, gripping his spoon as if it was a knife he could stab into someone’s heart.

 

Over in the corner of the tent, where the two of them were staring, was James, feeding his boyfriend a bite of his Star Baker winning rose, violet and jasmine three tiered sponge cake. The taller man adoringly reached out to brush a spot of cream off of James’s mouth, and then tasted it off his thumb, still staring at James, who simply rolled his eyes and laughed at his antics.

 

If anything the temperature in the tent dropped a few more degrees, Cris and Marcelo both glaring daggers at James’s boyfriend, because _how dare he do that. In public, too._

 

“I bet he picks his nose and wipes it under the table.” Marcelo gritted out.

 

“I bet he eat processed meat.” Cris sniffed. “Look at that skin. That’s the complexion of someone who eats lard.”

 

“You two,” Fabio cut in from behind “are ridiculous.” He placed two more plates of cake on the counter. “You could at least stop staring at the poor guy. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

 

“No.” Cris said. “I know that he doesn’t deserve James.”

 

Fabio sighed. “Cris, come on. He seems perfectly nice. And also, you both need to get over him. This is honestly embarrassing.”

 

“You know what’s really embarrassing? Seeing a ten, like him,” Cris gestured to James, the everpresent subject of interest, now allowing his boyfriend to feed him a bite of another bake. “with someone who looks like fucking Big Bird.”

 

“ _Cris_.” Fabio admonished. “That’s not nice.”

 

“Speaking of not nice.” Marcelo warned in a low voice, his eyes trained on another figure approaching the counter.

 

“Cristiano.” Geri purred, leaning on the counter, and incidentally leaning in uncomfortably close to Cris, who stiffened. “I heard your bake was gorgeous. I’d like to sample a piece.”

 

“No one’s going to stop you.” Cris sat back on his chair, chin out as he stared down Geri. “Just take a slice and go.”

 

“You’re so irritable lately, sweetheart.” Geri chuckled as he lightly stole Cris’s spoon off his plate, and dug his spoon into the cake without cutting a slice. “Is your period coming?”

 

“God, what are you, an animal?” Cris snapped at him. “At least put it on a plate.”

 

“You loved it when I was an animal to you.” Geri winked at Cris, licking the spoon slowly and far too unnecessarily. “Maybe we should hang out later. I got something that’ll turn that frown upside down.”

 

“Dude.” Marcelo stood up and gently slid the plate of cake away from Geri. “Just go.”

 

Geri threw his hands up. “All right, all right, calm down. Jesus, ladies.”

 

“Get out of here before I sabotage your next showstopper, Pique.” Fabio reached out to grasp the spoon of Geri’s hand neatly. “Move along.”

 

“I can’t believe you used to date him in college” Marcelo said as they watched Geri amble off to another countertop. “What were you even thinking?”

 

“I wasn’t thinking.” Cris rolled his eyes. “I was a stupid pimply nerd with bad hair who was looking for someone to play Halo with, but somehow ended up on my back two hours in and for the next six months after that.”

 

“What happened to your back?” James asked curiously, appearing out of nowhere to glance curiously at everyone’s faces, frozen with surprise. “Are you guys okay?” James went on. “You guys are like, super red.”

 

“It’s the heat.” Marcelo said with a straight face. “So humid.”

 

“…It’s literally sixty degrees in here.” James said, visibly confused, his brow knitted in concern. “Celo, are you feeling all right?”

 

And before Marcelo could reply, James was lifting his hand to his forehead, cupping his cheeks as well, biting his bottom lip in concentration. “You feel warm. Maybe you should go home?”

 

“Big bird should go home.” Cris muttered under his breath, gazing jealously at Marcelo as he closed his eyes in apparent bliss, soaking in the sensation of James’s warm hands, who was still feeling his temperature.

 

“What was that?” James said in confusion. “I didn’t hear what you said.”

 

“It’s nothing.” Cris said sulkily. “I feel hot too James.”

 

James was straightening Marcelo’s collar, still fussing over him, Marcelo now smiling down softly at him, James looking up to smile shyly at him too. “Cris, stop being a drama queen. You’re perfectly fine. In fact, there’s no way you could be hot, when you’re dressed like that in the tent.”

 

“The weather was fine when I walked out.” Cris argued. “How was I supposed to know that 5% chance of rain was going to happen?”

 

“This is England, dummy.” The long suffering Fabio was digging his fork into Pepe’s bake, a savory fig, goat cheese and honey scone from the signature challenge. “You, a grown man, should know better than to wear a crop top in this country.

 

“But it goes so well with my marigold beret.” Cris complained. “And my leather pants. James,” Cris went on. “Don’t you think my outfit looks perfect?”

 

James sighed. Cris raised an eyebrow, and did a perfect turn for everyone, smoothing down his hair and fussing with the hat, the lift of his arms pulling up on the skimpy top, exposing even more of his smooth belly that peeked from his high waist pants.

 

While Cris would never dress for any man, he didn’t mind the extra double takes and sneak peeks that people gave him, and he definitely didn’t mind the way little James would follow his circuit around the tent to the microwave with his eyes.

 

“You look scandalous and my grandma complains that you dress like a night worker every time she sees you on television.” James rolled his eyes. “But she also keeps asking me to get her your phone number, so yes, you look good.”

 

“If James says I look good.” Cris fluttered his eyelashes at him. “Then it’s worth it.”

 

“I didn’t say that.” James replied archly. “Just that little old ladies like how you look when you dress.”

 

“A little less worth it.” Cris grumbled, as Gio walked up to the counter, placing a possessive hand on the small of James’s back, effectively ending the general conversation.

 

“Ready to go, love?” Gio asked, with a hooded smile. “I want to try more of your cake at home.”

 

“Mm.” James replied, not looking back at him, slowly letting his hands fall free of Marcelo’s collar that resisted all efforts to straighten out. He glanced up at Marcelo one last time, before smiling at everyone. “See you guys. Good bake this week.”

 

“See you around.” Marcelo said, his eyes not leaving James.

 

When Marcelo finally tore his eyes from James and Gio’s retreating backs, he turned around to see Cristiano glaring at him with murder in his eyes.

 

“What?” Marcelo said.

 

“I bet you pick your nose when no one’s looking too.” Cris spit out.

 

“Oh my God.” Marcelo bumped Cris in the shoulder. “Mister Aveiro, do not start with me with your petty, small minded, and jealous remarks.”

 

* * *

 

 

As it turned out, Cristiano saw James much sooner than next week.

 

The cast of bakers had decided to go out to celebrate the soon to be upcoming semi finals, enjoying their limited time together simply having fun baking together. Naturally, the meeting pub place was like, a million stops away from Cris’s central London flat, but when he had heard James was planning to be there, there was no question that he was going.

 

Unfortunately, (or fortunately) Marcelo would be unable to make it, having a boring but apparently important family engagement already planned for the evening. Cris had tried not to show too much glee over the phone when Marcelo had told him the news, only to fail utterly and Marcelo to tell him off for being a terrible friend capitalizing on his misfortune. Cris had gotten the last word by quickly saying “Nyah nyah” and ending the call before Marcelo could reply.

 

It wasn’t like they were enemies, though, not by a long shot. They were old friends, one of those odd coincidences that this season of GBBO was full of, from the day he walked into the general cast meeting and realized his first ex boyfriend was there, from realizing that, _oh_ , Celo was here too.

 

Marcelo and him were old flat mates from when they were both fresh transplants from home, both used to warmer, sunnier climates, and both of them terribly shaken by what the locals called food, the pinnacle of their cuisine apparently being a basket of greasy batter fried fish and potato fries. Both of them had spent the year eating at nearly every cheap ethnic place they could afford out, looking for places that could serve mouthwatering dishes that could for a moment erase their ever present homesickness, talking loudly to one another, about everything and anything, trying to keep the warmth of their old memories alive in telling them to the near stranger across the table from each other. Marcelo, describing his mother’s moqueca, that particular taste of fresh juicy prawns in his mouth with the hot sunwarmth of the tomatoes grown in their yard; and then Cristiano, talking dreamily about how his mother would make bacalhau from salted cod she kept in the cool of their tiny cellar, the perfection of the crisped baked onions and white fleshed cod refreshed with the juice from a single precious lemon, carefully picked by Cristiano in the marketplace that morning, melting in his mouth.

 

Marcelo was the one who first got into baking, swearing that Cristiano needed to taste his mother’s recipe for white pudding. It only grew from there, Cristiano then insisting on getting pans and nozzles to make cream puffs, made just the way his grandmother did, who learned how to make them from a half French neighbor back during the War. Their apartment seemed to grow warmer, more full, people coming in for dinner, then people just dropping by, Cristiano and Marcelo going out with covered baking dishes in hand to different apartments, full of light and sound and warmth. Of course, eventually their apartment kitchen developed a terrible ant problem (all Marcelo’s fault and his inability to clean dishes as he worked) and they both moved out, and onwards after a year and a half, towards different parts of London, where their different jobs were, both promising to keep in touch. And they managed it, both keeping note of their new cooking projects, and running into each other at their shared friends apartments.

 

And yes, they might have slept together, once, twice, a couple times, several times a week, especially when they were living together, huddling together under the sheets like mice, keeping each other protected form the cold, holding each other together like they were two lonely asteroid bodies, colliding accidentally in the vastness of dead space, floating in the city of the hungry, desperate, thrumming living and the ever present presence of the accumulation of over two thousand years of the dead. And then, in the heyday of their cooking together and talking together and exploring all of ancient and new London together, it was like warmth, it was like fire, it was like a field of yellow dandelions, little pinwheels of living fireworks, blooming thickly in their apartment, lighting the way to their friends places, hugging them close in delight.

 

It couldn’t have worked in the long term. Cris needed too much—more people to talk to, more delights of space and time to see and hold, more people to love him. And Marcelo sometimes wanted to be quiet and still, so quiet and still that it was like hibernation, the warm brightness of him camouflaging into chalky whiteness like the beautiful and hateful milky English light that was ever around them, never ceasing. And Cris couldn’t understand why, why things weren’t like what they used to be, why Marcelo speech slowed, and then finally stopped, why Marcelo was sleeping nearly twelve hours in a day and yet was still so weary.

 

When Cris thought back to their time together, he wished he could have done things differently. Be more understanding, more patient, more loyal. More soft.

 

But the chips flew where they willed, and so it went. And they still loved. Just differently now. The different shapes and guises they wore when they met again—the temptress, the siren, the foundation rock, the magician, the fox. And yet underneath their new furs, their new shapes, they always knew each other, the taste of one another still on their tongues.

 

* * *

 

 

When James looked around after his third round of beer, he caught a glimpse of Cristiano, walking through the doorway of the small dark pub. The firelight caught at the man’s dark hair and eyes as he scanned through the crowd, until he saw James, waving wildly at him.

 

Cris laughed as James came in for a hug, smelling like rain and gunmetal sky, the rough fabric of his posh coat scratching at James’s cheek as they embraced, the sound of Cris’s low laughter still ringing in James’s ears as they pulled apart. “Why are you so late?” James asked.

 

“Ugh, it took a million transfers to get here, be nice.” Cris said, as they walked up to the bar together. “Plus I wouldn’t have come here if some nerd didn’t basically force me to come.”

 

“Don’t try to act like you’re so cool.” James shot back. “I know you watch Pixar movies obsessively when you think no ones watching.”

 

“ _First_ of all,” Cris said haughtily, “Everyone loves a Pixar film, so it’s not nerdy. And secondly, this is rich coming from the guy who like, games all his free time away.”

 

“Oh hush.” James stuck his tongue out at Cris. “You know you love Minecraft since we played it together. You’re a bona fide nerd now, don’t even try to hide it.”

 

Cris scowled as he took a sip of his gin and tonic, neatly fishing out the thyme garnish. “And Animal Crossing too.” He mumbled in his cup.

 

“Can’t forget Pocket Camp.” James smiled sunnily up at Cris. As much as he had thought Cristiano was handsome from the very beginning, what had really endeared him to James was his contradictions—the way he knew how to dress incredibly posh and correctly, compared to his usual casual wardrobe which could only charitably be described as a fast fashion garbage fire with hideously expensive Nikes thrown in. Or the way he could obsess over the exact shade of rose gold painted garnishes on his saffron thyme wedding cake, and then right after judging, shove Fabio face first into his cake, doubled over with laughter at the sight of Fabio’s face, smeared with pink cream.

 

James remembered being so distracted by the clean planes of Cristiano’s features, up close as Cris was furiously and silently chopping James’s pistachios for him. He had already put his bake out to cool, and was passing by James’s counter, to see him red faced and nearly in tears, James’s showstopper challenge gone horribly awry after James had salted his sponge, and ended up having to make another one. Desperately behind on time, he had looked up to see Cristiano striding up to him with a determined expression, knife in hand, hissing at James. It took a few moments for James’s to make out what Cris was saying to him, asking him what he could do. James had stuttered out that he needed to finish rough chopping the pistachios, wanting to bite out his tongue as soon as he heard himself and his clumsy tongue. He had wanted to impress Cristiano, the contestant that he couldn’t help watching from the corner of his eye. He wanted to make him look at him, really look at him and be impressed with what he saw. Instead, Cristiano had to notice him at his complete worst—all stutter and disastrous cooking and frustration, a trash bin full of his failed sponges.

 

Instead of impressing Cris with his amazing bakes (that had worked at home twice when he did, he’d swear) Cris had finished his nuts in a few moments, and without another word, began to whip James’s chocolate ganache for him too, getting it high and fluffy. James, trying to cool his sponges with two baking trays, couldn’t help but being entranced by the dark sweep of Cris’s eyelashes, the minute trembling of them as Cris focused on beating his bowl of chocolate cream.

 

And at that moment, Cris unexpectedly had looked up, to catch James full on staring at him like an idiot. James felt himself flush crimson, his mouth falling open in horror as he tried to find an explanation, anything, to cover up the fact that he’d been gawping at Cris like a schoolboy with a crush.

 

But Cristiano hadn’t done anything, no flinch of disgust, no angry words. Instead, a small crooked smile turned his mouth, his eyes doe eyed and dark.

 

“Thought I’d catch you looking at me one of these days.” He said in a low voice, too low for the cameras dashing around the counters to capture.

 

And James could do nothing more than blush, pinkening all the way down to his chest.

 

* * *

 

 

The world tasted like juniper berries and thyme, and was swimming as well, a river of bar lights flowing all around James.

 

He was utterly pissed, but in his defense, so was very nearly everyone else. It had been a raucous evening, loud friendly arguments about whether Swiss or French meringue would be better for next week’s challenge, the relative merits of both, devolving in a near fist fight between two bakers over the quality of their respective blackberry jams.

 

“It’s stupid.” James had slurred in Cristiano’s ear as they stumbled out of the pub into the chilly night’s air outside, along with the rest of the group who had made it all the way to closing. “Morata’s ‘secret family jam recipe’ came off the back of a Betty Crocker box and he knows it.”

 

Cris rolled his eyes. “Alvaro’s a pretentious little turd and everyone knows it. His stupid toffee topping nearly chipped poor Guti’s teeth.”

 

“Guti probably didn’t even feel it. The man’s body is like, 80% alcohol.”

 

“Seems a little low to me.” Cris laughed.

 

“So,” James said, his limbs still heavy and uncoordinated, leaning heavily onto Cristiano to walk only a couple more feet, to stop in front of his apartment, the one that the producers had set up for him during shooting, since they were doing the show in the middle of nearly nowhere. “You should come in.”

 

Cris merely lifted an impeccable eyebrow at him. “Oh? I should?”

 

“Yes.” James said, trying to straighten himself to be as tall and commanding as possible, except that wasn’t very possible at all, so he stumbled again, and Cris had to dart in to catch him before he fell, James’s closing his eyes as his cheek rested against the warmth of Cristiano’s chest, the warmth that felt so good in the cold air. “You should. In fact, you should sleep with me.”

 

“James.” Cris said simply. But his hands around James’s shoulders didn’t fall away.

 

“You should. I want you. Not just that. Not that you’re not completely, unbelievably beautiful and not to mention completely vain about it and love showing off how lovely you are to everyone. Not that I wouldn’t be the luckiest man in the world to even get to know you, the real you, how kind you are. How much you care. Not that I don’t want to undress you upstairs and have you in my bed tonight.” James began to realize he was losing his train of thought. Whoops.

 

“James.” Cris said again, but with a hint of amusement in his voice. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

 

“I like you, Cristiano.” James said, wrapping his arms around Cristiano’s waist, because the world was starting to tilt to one side, but at least Cris wasn’t moving, Cris was solid, planted in the earth, strong enough to hold James right side up. “And I think you like me too.”

 

“I do like you.” Cristiano said gently, as James began to slowly fall while still clinging to Cris’s waist, collapsing on his knees on the cobblestone steps, finally losing his battle with gravity to lie back on the steps, boneless as a cat. Through lidded eyes, James watched Cristiano gingerly seat himself next to him on the steps, his shoulder still touching James’s. “But you’re with someone.”

 

“No, I’m not.” James said, closing his eyes shut of a recent memory. “Gio’s going back home tonight. He got on his knees this afternoon and proposed to me with a ring, and in the same breath, said that I should enroll back in my engineering program in Bogota so we could start our family soon.”

 

“Oh.” Cris said. There was silence for a while, as James bit his lip, and Cris simply stared out into the darkness beyond the village square, the sound of rustling sedge grass in the sparse wind. “I’m sorry, James.”

 

“Why would you be?” James said. “You didn’t like him. You called him Big Bird.”

 

Cris swore under his breath. “I thought you didn’t hear that.”

 

“Well, you and Marcelo were both terrible at hiding the fact that you hated him.”

 

“Fine, I didn’t like him that much.” Cris sighed. “But that doesn’t really matter. What matters is you. You’ve just been thrown in for a loop, and things have changed for you in a big way today. It isn’t fair to you, and you don’t deserve it. You deserve to be happy.”

 

James sighed, and shook his head. “No I don’t.”

 

“Yes, you do.” Cris said firmly. “You said you’re the luckiest man on earth to know me. Well, yes, you definitely are, but I think that honor goes to me as well. I’m happy I got to meet you. I’m happy we got to do this together. You’re a good man. You help anyone and everyone, even if it means you fall behind on your bakes. You listen to Pepe when he’s going on about his boring bible study. You lent Fabio your own stand mixer when his broke and you beat your meringues by _hand_. You always look after Marcelo, even when he’s having his bad days, and you make sure he looks neat for the camera and try to make him laugh.” Cris sighed. “You make everyone better for being there. You do what I can’t.”

 

James shook his head. “I’m not a good person.” He whispered, his heart breaking as he confessed his secret. “Or I wouldn’t have fallen in love with you and Marcelo. While I was with Gio. And two of you, too.”

 

Cris exhaled, shakily, but James felt warm arms encircling him. “Oh James.” Cris said, in that low, low voice that had caught James so completely the first time he heard it. “That’s not bad. That’s not a bad thing at all.”

 

James leaned up, gripping at Cris’s arms.

 

The world tasted like juniper berries and thyme and Cristiano, now both of them swimming in a river of light.

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

Post script:

 

“Uh oh.” Iker had said, turning to look at a counter in the back corner.

 

Sergio had swiveled to see what Iker was talking about, only to see what he was seeing. “Oh my God.” He said, raising his arms to tug at his hair in frustration.

 

The cameras hadn’t seen them yet, but James and Cristiano were clearly deep in the middle of a _moment_ , per se. Cris was giving James the most obvious come-hither eyes in the history of mankind over a tray of chocolate and pistachio bars, and James was blushing prettily, while staring openly at Cris, his crush obvious to the world.

 

“We have to do something.” Iker said grimly.

 

“Are these boys idiots?” Sergio groaned. “Why can’t they do their flirting off camera like normal people? And what is with James? How does he have the two of the best looking contestants around his little finger like that?”

 

Iker cuffed Sergio around the head. “Less talking, more moving. Hurry, one of the cameramen are going to see them any moment.”

 

“Zidane is going to yell at us for ruining so much footage this season.” Sergio whined as they jogged over to the nearest camera.

 

“Can’t be helped.” Iker said shortly. “We have to help them.”

 

“You’re such a romantic, Iker.” Sergio mumbled mutinously. “Hope this is worth us getting reamed out by management again.”

 

“I’ll make it worth your while tonight, nene.” Iker whispered in Sergio’s ear, before breaking off to cover the other camera. After a moment of surprise, Sergio whooped in delight.

 

“Today.” Sergio said, while planting himself in front of the first camera. “is Treat Yoself 2017.”

 

“Clothes.” Iker said in a long suffering mumble, facing the second camera.

 

“Treat yo self.” Sergio called out to Iker, while pointing finger guns at him.

 

“Fragrances.” Iker said.

 

“Treat yo self.” Sergio replied.

 

“Mimosas.” Iker doggedly continued.

 

“Treat yo self.” Sergio said with a little spin.

 

“Fine leather goods.” Iker finished.

 

“Treat. Yo. Self.” Sergio emphasized each syllable, while punching the air. Then he came close to the camera to complete a stage whisper. “Also Iker’s gonna fuck me into the mattress tonight.”

 

“Tide, Toshiba, Trader Joes, Toyota, aaaand Apple care. There, that should do it.” Iker finished.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A very short series on what once could have been. 
> 
> Also I miss James. :(


End file.
